A cold, mechanical voice echoed from the phone, and Shipley’s heart skipped a beat.
He dialed again and again; each call went unanswered. Veins pulsed on his forehead, and the easy smile on his lips twisted into something wild. The usual glint of amusement in his eyes vanished without a trace.
Silvia, keep this up, and I really will lose my temper.
He tossed back the last of his tea, set the cup aside, and headed straight home.
His face was clouded, jaw tight, fists clenched around his phone as if he could will it to ring. Passing by Silvia’s guest room, Shipley paused, hand gripping the doorknob. For a moment, he hesitated—then, with a frustrated jerk, let it go.
He couldn’t deny it—Silvia’s tantrum was getting to him. He cared, maybe more than he wanted to admit.
But enough was enough.
The front door clicked open. A woman’s soft voice floated in: “Shipley, why don’t we go out for dinner tonight? There’s a French place I’ve been wanting to try—”
Vianne’s words trailed off abruptly when she saw Shipley standing by Silvia’s door, a shadow crossing her gaze.
Is he still thinking about Silvia?
But that woman already left him, went back to Capital City.
Maybe it was time to add a little fuel to the fire.
Vianne’s tone shifted, dropping the dinner suggestion. Her voice grew small, touched with bitterness. “Shipley, maybe… maybe I should move out. You could ask Silvia to come back. She’s never really accepted me, not after all this time. I know I only have you, but I don’t want to be the reason she’s always unhappy. It can’t make you happy either.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, her delicate face taking on a look so fragile and pure it tugged at any man’s instinct to protect her.
Seeing her like this, Shipley came down the stairs and stopped in front of her. He met Vianne’s gaze, then gently dabbed the tears from her lashes with a tissue.
Her eyes—bright and expressive—reminded him so much of Silvia’s. The resemblance was uncanny.

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